“You haven’t been paying attention, Lang. The deal with China was only cemented in the last couple of days. Without that alliance, Argentina would need to keep their activities secret for months, maybe a year. China might have helped them shoot it down as a good-faith gesture or to guarantee they get the bulk of the crude that’s pumped from those new wells. Either way, it shows they’ve been in bed together for a while.”

“I should have thought of that.”

“I’ve spent the last eighteen hours under police interrogation and I saw it, so, yeah, you should have.” Juan was teasing, which at a time like this was an indication of the depths of his exhaustion.

“What are your plans now?”

“I’ve got to make contact with the Oregon before I know where we’re heading, but I’ll keep you updated. Please do the same.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Max had listened to Juan’s end of the conversation. “You don’t know where we’re going?”

Juan pulled the microphone from his ear. “Do you honestly think I’m going to trust the locals to find Tamara Wright? We got her into this mess and we’re damned sure going to get her back out. I’ve rented the plane with the greatest endurance they have here, so we’re going to get her no matter where she is.”

“That’s why I love you. You’ll spare no expense trying to get me a date.”

Cabrillo grinned at Max’s shamelessness and replaced the Bluetooth headset to call the Oregon. He asked Hali Kasim, their communications specialist, to patch him through to Eric Stone.

“Why did you pull us off our search for the mystery bay?” Eric asked.

“Because you’ve already found it.”

“I have?”

“It’s within snowcat distance of Wilson/George, maybe closer.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because I’m the Chairman.” Juan really was exhausted. “Do me a favor, I want you to check the logs of Jackson-Evers field for any private jets that flew out of here between, say, midnight and noon today.”

In the pre-9/11 days, he probably could have charmed that information out of the pretty receptionist at the general-aviation counter, but not anymore.

“Give me a second.” Over the connection, he could hear Stone’s fingers flying over his keyboard.

Juan was playing a hunch, one he felt reasonably certain about.

“One last firewall,” Eric said absently, then a triumphant, “Got it. Okay, there were two. One was an Atlantic Aviation charter to New York City that left at nine o’clock this morning. The other was a private jet that filed a flight plan for Mexico City that took off at one-thirty this morning.”

“What can you tell me about that plane?”

“Hold on. That’s another database.” It took him less than a minute. “The plane’s owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.”

“A dummy front?”